Eminem Is My Bitch

I don't know what it is about Los Angeles, but whenever I go there, strange desires surface. Maybe it's all those bright, sunny days with a thick layer of smog looming above my head. Maybe the number of cell phones in use per square inch is fucking with my brain waves.

I arrived in L.A. just in time to witness the best pairing since Sonny and Cher: Eminem and Elton John singing together at the Grammys. Considering how they were hyped and protested to the hilt, I was slightly disappointed by their low-key rendition of "Stan." You see, in my fantasy, Elton actually raps the controversial lyrics of "The Way I Am," Eminem is strung up in full bondage, and Dido (whose song was sampled in their performance) is there dressed as a dominatrix. Oh, forget Dido. I am the dominatrix, and Eminem is my bottom, on his knees and at my mercy. Don't get me wrongI would never humiliate, beat, or torture Eminem without his consent. I just happen to think he'd enjoy himself: He definitely has a masochistic streak. I want Eminem to be my bitch.

Does my urge make me as depraved as he's supposed to be? (My bitch says, "I am whatever you say I am.")

I am embarrassed to say that, like many of Eminem's anti-fans, I bought into all the rhetoric about himyou know, I'm queer, and queers should hate himbefore even listening to his music. My gay leatherdaddy, who I was staying with in Los Angeles, happens to dig the dude, so he played every track from The Marshall Mathers LP for me. I must say that his stuff is a lot more complicated than the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation press releases would have me believe. Is Eminem truly evil, or is he simply saying what America is thinking? Nearly half of the country elected a drunk-driving, double-talking idiot and a conservative politician who adamantly supports antigay legislation even though his own daughter is an out lesbian. Eminem's lips may be the ones that are moving, but he's not the only one with homophobia and misogyny on his mind.

The porn phenomenon known as bukkake shoots homophobia and misogyny right on your face. The concept of this particular peckerfest began in Japan (where its depiction is illegal): A group of men stand around, yank their chains, and ejaculate all over a woman's kisser. Although this is a supposedly "straight" sexual exchange intended to turn on hetero men, many watchers can't help but notice that lots of naked men are standing near one another, holding their hard-ons and jerking off. The fact that there is some submissive slut who wants their spooge all over her face seems as inconsequential as a girlfriend for Ricky Martin. Gee, sounds a lot like a gay circle jerk to me. A researcher from Playboy TV's Sexcetera told me about his visit to the set of a bukkake video that took this sperm-o-rama to its highest homoerotic level. Eighty-nine men masturbated and came on this girl (who, incidentally, was wearing an E-collar, the white plastic lamp shade you put on a recently neutered puppy to keep it from licking its stitches). When number 90 stepped up to the plate, he popped, then proceeded to lap all the cum off her like a rabid dog. The cum of 89 men. If that's not gay, I don't know what is. (Note to my bitch: This material is ripe for your next album. Say "Thank you, ma'am.")

Since the gay leatherdaddy and the straight fetish master have joint custody of me whenever I am in town, I've gotta say "Thank you, sir" to my other host, a dear friend and kinky top who generously opened his world-renowned s/m dungeon to me (it happens to double as guest quarters). It's always a fairly surreal experience when I stay with him; as I climb into bed, I am surrounded by rows of menacing whips, shiny silver clips and clamps, and tray after tray of medical implements. The walls are covered with eclectic sadomasochistic art, mostly men dominating women, his particular bent. (This guy's fantasies would scare the living daylights out of Eminem.) When I wake up in the morning, I sometimes forget where I am. I shuffle to the bathroom, where I am greeted by a wall of enema bags, rubber tubing curled around hooks, 40 different enema nozzles, and a black latex apron hanging on the back of the door. Sometimes a girl just wants to pee without being bombarded by someone else's enema fetish. And sometimes I don't want a toilet there. I want my bitch underneath me. Eminem: Forget about washing your mouth out with soap. I've got a better idea.

I am ultimately always thankful for Mr. Top's enema fetish, and I was especially grateful this trip, since I found myself in a photo shoot for Hustler's Taboo magazine. I think I am the first Taboo columnistI'm the Anal Advisorto put my pen down and my pussy forward for a hardcore pictorial. For me, it was an excuse to get my hands on my favorite adult star in the world, Chloe, who just signed an exclusive contract to direct and perform for VCA Pictures. After sticking a purple Japanese eggplant up my ass (the photographer's idea), Chloe tortured my pussy with clamps and weights, gave me a faux enema, and dominated me in various ways. I was Chloe's bitch. Well, sometimes you just gotta turn those tables.

Someone else with a passion for turning tables is Larry Flynt, and I love to visit his retail venture, Hustler Hollywood, when I am in town. The store takes the whole notion of the sleazy adult bookstore on the wrong side of town and turns it upside down. The Flynt empire created a brightly lit adult emporium smack in the middle of West Hollywood amid all the trendy hotels and clubs. At Hustler Hollywood, you can buy a pink velvety pillow with the words Barely Legal embossed on it, a realistic replica of porn star Janine's pussy (it vibrates!), a supersized bottle of lube or massage oil, and even a handcrafted glass dildo created by local company Heart On. I picked one up as a special gift for Eminem. If that bitch only knew how he has inspired me.